


What home means to him

by goldleaf1066



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Bromance, Brotherly Affection, Family Feels, Other, Slashy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaf1066/pseuds/goldleaf1066
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have I upset you, brother? It seems as if I have."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What home means to him

**Author's Note:**

> Loathe as I am to begin with an apology, I admit this is more of a first foray than anything ground-breaking plot-wise; lore/timeline etc., errors are my own (I've no idea what I'm doing...!)

It's cold in the wilds and the beds of Rivendell seem nothing more than a memory, a dream fading faster than mist. The wind is high and they dared not set a fire; how well a breeze-flung smokestack stood out against the stars to enemy eyes none knew for certain, and so the risk was deemed too great, and not even Ori's crestfallen expression would move Thorin to sympathy nor toward the flint and tinder. Throats cut in the darkness didn't appeal to Kíli either, but he had the sense at least to keep his discomfort to himself, and he lies on his back looking up at the endlessness of the night, with no soft pillow beneath his head, nor elven fare in his belly.

Bombur's snores rumble on like the greatest of rivers. Balin and Dwalin whisper nearby. Fíli…Fíli is sleeping, or so Kíli imagines. An arm that is not his own lies flung across Kíli's midsection, though he pretends it isn't there.

He should be thankful for the extra heat, but instead of food there is only discomfort in his stomach, a niggling sensation of irritation, confused by the overpowering normalcy of the familiar. On the road, in a camp, in the towns of men, under the watch of elves; wherever Fíli is, Kíli should feel at home.

In recent weeks the thought has not comforted him as it once did.

 

It had struck him as they prepared to set out for the Shire, his excitement at this adventure with his brother and uncle fading when he caught the end of a conversation between Thorin and Dís, one in which his mother's voice was defeated, grief-ridden. _And if none of you return, what then?_ she had said, and Kíli had crept past the half-closed door on tiptoe, the arrows in his quiver clutched tightly in a fist lest he rattle and make himself known.

"And if we do not go, if we do not try when the chance is laid before us, what then?" Thorin's voice was the rumble of receding thunder, not angry, but stern. Nothing would come between this wayward king and his kingdom, nothing at all.

"They are your heirs."

"Aye," Thorin said, and Kíli had darted away as the door opened fully, his uncle's shadow filling the gap. "It is right that they too should reclaim what has been stolen from them."

Dís didn't want them to go; they were living in a rented, three-room cottage, little more than a workshop with beds, paid for by Thorin and Fíli's skills at the anvil and forge along the street. When he wasn't hunting Kíli worked too, but his less-skillful smithing raised fewer coin, and he fell to fletching, bow-stringing, odd-jobs here and there that barely paid for the bow-strings themselves. This was no life for the heirs of Durin, scraping what they had together in the villages of men for a time before moving onto the next one, but it was a life, and Dís had what was left of her family under one roof. Kíli understood his mother's objections, and, though he would never admit it to his brother or uncle, he had almost grown to like it here; the routine was something akin to a home, if nothing else. But Fíli wanted to go, desperately straining against his mother's doubt and fear; the warrior prince in him striving for name and glory for their people, and Kíli found that a house without Fíli would be no home at all.

Home was Fíli kicking the side of his bed to wake him in the mornings. Home was Fíli's hand landing heavily on his shoulder in farewell as he headed with their uncle to the smithy. Home was Fíli's terrible jokes, his banter, his teasing. Home was re-braiding Fíli's hair for him after his bath at the end of the day. Home was Fíli.

And if Fíli was leaving, so was Kíli. Fíli and Kíli, never apart. But upon seeing the look in their mother's eyes as he and his brother waved farewell and set out into the world a sudden fear knifed through Kíli's innards. What if– what if they didn't return? What if he were killed, Kíli thought. Or even worse, what if Fíli fell? For the first few hours of their journey he was subdued, rousing himself whenever Fíli nudged him with an elbow and asked him what was wrong, but soon sinking back into malaise, into worry, into the certainty that if he were to come back from this venture to regain their true home, he first would have to forget about what home meant to _him_. 

If Fíli died, Kíli knew he too would not rise again. Watching his brother re-shoulder his pack and point ahead, calling out some change of route, Kíli knew what he needed to do.

 

Fíli lies on his side, face crumpled against his own hand beneath his head. His arm still rests over Kíli, protective, or merely convenient. Kíli sighs. The camp has grown silent; everyone else must now be asleep. Looking to his right, Kíli can make out near the trees the dark shadow that is their uncle keeping watch. The sky above is clear and black and the stars themselves seem pensive; there is yet a little time before the the first flare of dawn. The ground is cold, and Fíli is warm. Kíli turns over, facing away from the source of his conflict, and watches Thorin in the gloom, still as stone.

His uncle's eyes glint in the dark, but Thorin is looking out over the valley, into the night, listening to the wind. It's difficult for Kíli to remember a time when he and Fíli were not being watched over by their uncle; it had been Thorin who took in his sister and his sister-sons, and it had been Thorin who had raised them almost as his own. Thorin who sang them to sleep in his low register. Thorin who taught them how to work steel into a blade and how to wield it. Thorin whose forbidding bearing concealed a good, kind heart, the heart of a king. Fíli was next in line but Thorin had never played favourites; he had schooled his elder nephew in swordplay until Fíli was almost his equal, and when Kíli had proven more adept with bow and arrow he had relented in his attempts to do likewise with the younger brother without display nor rancour. For his seventy-fifth birthday Thorin had given Kíli a bow carved from honey-coloured wood, supple and strong. Almost, Kíli had thought but not voiced, as if carved by elves, the delicate lines so unlike the angular designs of dwarfkind. 

The bow lies within arm's reach beside him. As does Fíli. Kíli closes his eyes and levels his breathing.

 

At Bag End it had been hard to distance himself as he had attempted on their journey there, especially once the ale had began to flow and the prospect of a hearty meal was more than just a wizard's vague promise. It was easy to overpower Bilbo's flustered yelps of protest with boisterous drinking songs, and easier still for Kíli to forget for a short while that he was supposed to be being aloof with his brother, laughing with Bofur even with Fíli stepping in his dinner as he strode the length of the table, proffering an overspilling tankard that Kíli accepted with a grin. Easy enough to do what dwarves did best, save mining; enjoy a lively evening, be raucous, be merry.

Later, with a head clouded by drink and feet and hands made from iron, or so it felt, Kíli stumbled into the guest room he had been directed to by the master hobbit, looking ever the more ready to weep as the night wore on. Poor Boggins, Kíli thought; he must not have many friends if entertaining such a party was so large an ordeal.

"Time do you call this, brother?" It was only after Kíli had closed the door, and spent a good amount of time negotiating his way out of his overcoat that he noticed Fíli, lying with his arms folded beneath his head on the bed, hair in utter disarray, eyes squinting in inebriated mirth. There was only one bed, Kíli noted with dismay. Perhaps he might beg a spare blanket of the beleaguered Bilbo and retire in front of the hearth. 

In answer, he shrugged. Annoyingly, Fíli continued to watch him as he readied himself for bed. In the end, sleeping in his breeches and shirt didn't seem so much of an issue after all; the convenience of being drunk meant his fingers would not undo the lacings nor buckles, and Kíli sighed inwardly in relief. When he looked up, Fíli was giving him his particular older-brotherly look, the tilt of the head, the blonde-browed frown, the moue. "Sharing a bed with you is bad enough without having also to suffer your travelling clothes." Fíli was shirtless, and what further degree of nakedness he had attained it was impossible to tell; the blanket concealed everything below his midsection, though Kíli could see beneath the cloth his brother had his legs stretched out and crossed as if he were sunning himself by the river.

Defeat. "I can't…" Kíli slumped, and gestured toward the knots of his shirt. Fíli beckoned him closer, and Kíli obeyed, settling himself heavily on the edge of the bed, twisting so that his brother might untie him. Fíli leant in close, his toned flank so warm as to scald Kíli where it pressed against his thigh, and the younger brother opened his mouth to speak but succeeded only in getting a mouthful of unbound, flaxen hair. He sat, un-fidgeting, and it must have seemed off to Fíli but his brother uttered nothing save the odd murmured Khuzdûl curse as he himself struggled with the knots. Kíli could smell the spice of him, the warm earthiness of days spent on the road, the lingering sweetness of the soap he last washed his hair with, the breathy hint of ale. Deeper than that, he could smell _Fíli_ , the unnameable, most familiar familial scent they both shared, of mutual blood and flesh, the scent of childhood nights spent huddling in Fíli's bed in fear of spectres, the scent of himself, the scent of all that was right in the world.

"Kíli!" It was clear from his tone of indignation that Fíli had been repeating his name for quite some time, this last outburst punctuated with a shove. Kíli started, and looked down, belatedly realising his shirt now hung open, exposing the dark hair of his chest and belly. 

"Sorry," he muttered, rising. "Drifted off. Too much to drink." Kíli smiled, hoping that would suffice, and Fíli seemed to accept it. When he reached for the buckle of Kíli's breeches the younger stepped out of reach. "'S'fine, I can manage now."

"Suit yourself." A quick glance over his shoulder showed that Fíli had resumed his former position on the bed, but this time his eyes were closed. Kíli turned from him anyway, and unbuckled his breeches, alarmed at the quivering of his hands that he knew had little to do with intoxication. _Distance_ , he reminded himself, shouldering his way out of his shirt and hanging it over the end of the bed. _Keep your distance and you can't get hurt._

How far could he distance himself from Fíli in a single bed? Perhaps it seemed bigger to hobbits. Kíli stood in his underclothes and watched his brother doze. Surely, surely one night couldn't be helped, not under such tipsy circumstances. For old times' sake, he decided, irritated with himself for needing to justify loving his brother; one last taste of home. He lifted up the coverlet and clambered clumsily into the bed, and didn't struggle away when Fíli inevitably embraced him, their legs in a welter, a cold nose against his throat.

 

Kíli staggers to his feet, the urge to piss a blessing to him for it means genuine excuse to evade Fíli's nearness. There is a designated spot a little way into the tree-line; passing Thorin his uncle makes no indication he has noticed him–though Kíli knows he must have–but still Kíli paces a little further into the foliage, out of view, uncomfortable. Of late, his attempts at avoiding Fíli have made everything uncomfortable. Thorin's exasperated glances at him as they travel are more frequent and sustained, and though Kíli counts Bofur as a good friend still his constant jibes over where his 'other half' is are grating. As for Fíli…Kíli isn't sure anyone has been bothering him. Undoing his breeches behind an old oak, he realises he hasn't properly spoken to his brother in days, so how could he know?

Poor Fíli. Kíli frowns against that thought, and relieves himself against the tree. Perhaps his brother is disheartened. Lonely. Confused as to why Kíli has taken to walking ahead with their uncle when they are on the move. Each night, it's with guilt that Kíli beds down beside his brother, a paltry recompense he tells himself for the lack of courtesy in the daylight hours. And Fíli says nothing to him, but he lies close and they share a blanket.

Poor Fíli. And poor Kíli, Kíli thinks, striding back from the woodland in the direction of the camp. _Poor me! It's not as if I wanted to come along in the first place._ It's all Fíli's fault, he thinks, sitting down on the blanket beside his brother, who curls onto his side, facing away, snoring quietly. Kíli remembers how he acted in Rivendell and the guilt surges. _I only came to be with him. If he fell, not knowing would be the worst._ One of Fíli's braids has come undone and Kíli pulls the loose strands of hair from his brother's eyes, dividing them into three. Paltry recompense indeed.

 

In the Hidden Valley there had been more than enough room for them all, even accounting for dwarven misgivings about the genuine nature of their hosts Kíli found he couldn't refuse a meal when freely offered, even if it was too leafy for the more sheltered of their group. With Thorin and Balin off with Gandalf in the attempt at deciphering their map once and for all, something akin to the night in the Shire soon evolved, though with a little more restraint; the watchful gaze of the elf Lindir was enough to put Kíli off a third helping of supper. 

Later, Kíli occupied himself mending arrows as the night drew in, dodging the occasional Bombur-aimed sausage. Fíli was no more than a blond apparition in the corner of his vision. He could feel his brother's eyes on him and he wished he would leave him be, understand without being told that Kíli needed to protect his heart; they had always been so close, surely Fíli could read his thoughts by now? As elven wine flowed the others began a slow melody, nothing so melancholy as the cradle-song Thorin used to sing to his nephews, but measured nonetheless, an evening-refrain that made Kíli's eyelids droop and a yawn come unbidden to his mouth. 

"I'm turning in," he said to no-one in particular, standing up and stretching. He couldn't see Fíli now; perhaps he had retired too. None of the others paid him mind, busy reciting the chorus, filling another goblet, eating another sausage. Kíli left them and walked through hallways warm with lanterns, ceilings arcing above him like the boughs of the forest, pale arms of wood, like his bow. The Last Homely House certainly lived up to its name, Kíli thought, stepping into a guest room spacious and well-furnished, with beds-a-plenty so there would be no need to bunk up. Just as well, he thought, for his brother was by the window, furling pipe-smoke wreathing his noble profile against the backdrop of the fading sunlight.

"Kíli," he said, with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. Kíli pressed his lips together and managed a grunt, even a half-nod of greeting. He could go back, say he'd changed his mind, he'd have another drink, sing a few songs, but then Fíli would know there was really something going on, not that Kíli for a moment thought Fíli was so dense as to be oblivious thus far. _He's the clever one, remember? He'll make a good king one day, not you._ Choosing the bed furthest from his brother Kíli turned from him and began shedding his clothing; their packs had been brought to the room earlier and it was when Kíli was elbow deep in his belongings in search of a fresh shirt to sleep in that Fíli addressed him again.

"Have I upset you, brother? It seems as if I have." His words contained none of his usual humour, in his voice there lay only the sad echo of warmth.

"Um, no," Kíli said, hiding his face behind inky locks. The shirt was proving elusive, and he became worried that he'd left it behind somewhere. He heard his brother's footsteps on the flagstones, the tang of his tobacco seasoning the air. Kíli looked up; by the window hung drapes of smoky gauze, drifting like ghosts. Before them, closer, framed by it all, stood Fíli, the glow from his pipe-bowl-smoulder flaring and illuminating his eyes, setting his hair ablaze with light, a tumult of molten gold that cascaded either side of that beloved face. Kíli swallowed, his fingers closing around what he prayed was his shirt; pulling whatever it was from his pack and bundling it under his arm, he stood abruptly. "I'm fair tired. Goodnight." An awkward mumbling, he spun on his heel and would have launched himself at the bed had he not the forethought to retain a little poise. 

At least this time the bed was big enough, crafted for elves and not halflings. Big enough for two, even, something Kíli hated ferociously all of a sudden. When Fíli's hand landed gently on his shoulder, buried as far beneath the blankets as it was, it was all Kíli could do to keep his tone amiable, lest he upset his brother further.

"'S'a rare chance we have here for a bed to ourselves; why don't you take that one there? You know I like to stretch out."

Kíli knew well that menfolk were often of the opinion that because for dwarves digging and mining were second only to breathing surely they must choose to live in muddy little hovels, with beds of dirt and rocks for pillows. For as long as Kíli could remember he had had a bed and blankets and pillow as comfortable as any king's; soft cottons in the hot months and feather-down quilts in the winter. It was a home comfort, and he burrowed down into the coverlets of this elven bed, determined to enjoy this night's sleep no matter the cost, whether it be the passive acceptance of elves in general or the self-made fissure between himself and his brother. It was the latter that kept Kíli's eyes from closing, even as sleep tempted his body, as further yawns were stifled.

For as long as Kíli could remember his bed had had Fíli in it too, whether to ward off the bad dreams of youth or just because; heat in the dark, a nothing-embrace, just a thing they had always had and that had always been. Fíli and Kíli, he thought, never apart. He heard the rustle of shed-clothing, the creak of wood as Fíli climbed into his own bed nearby and sighed through his nose.

He could get up, he could just climb in, slide behind his brother and hook his arm around him and bury his face in that mess of hair. It wasn't too late, Fíli had always been forgiving of his nonsense before. Kíli turned over as quietly as he could, peering out from the covers. Their eyes met in the fading light, and Kíli hid quickly beneath the blankets, desolate.

 

It must be raining, Kíli thinks, though the ground about them, the rocks, the blankets are dry. But there they are, three big raindrops on Fíli's forehead and cheek, and there, another. Fíli screws up his face, stirring. Kíli drops the braid, raises his hands to his own face where he realises belatedly the water originates; sitting weeping and plaiting hair, Kíli would laugh were he not afraid of making noise. He knuckles away the tears angrily, stilling as Fíli rolls suddenly onto his back and reaches for his arm, pulling it down gently.

"Tell me, Kíli."

He wants to say _tell you what?_ or _it's nothing_ , or _leave me alone, stupid, go back to sleep_ but instead Kíli glances over toward their uncle as Fíli's fingers curl around his palm. 

"Not here."

They don't go far, only the other side of a shielding wall of rock a few yards from the others. He has no idea how to explain it, how to make what he thought was a good plan to begin with even make sense now. He stands with his back against the rock, frowning at the first soft colours of dawn on the horizon. For once, Fíli keeps his distance, leaning a shoulder on the rock wall too far for Kíli to reach out and scrub his own spilled tears from his brother's cheek without moving toward him, and Kíli can't do it, his stomach lurching. Suddenly it all comes out; a wavering, ridiculous whisper at first but then Kíli swallows and resumes talking to his feet in a voice that is close enough to his own. He starts at the beginning, from when they left their mother at the entrance to the little cottage, how the thought of their never returning safely, or together to her embrace chilled him. He knows it sounds childish, but it's true, he says. There hasn't been a day without Fíli in his life. Kíli can't explain why it seemed right to him at the time but he thought, if, _if_ they drifted apart along the way somehow, then maybe, only maybe, it wouldn't be so unbearable when– if, _if_ they were torn apart. Kíli can't look at his brother when he says it: that Fíli is his Erebor, knowing well enough were he to repeat that in front of their uncle he'd be lucky to get a kick up the backside.

He adds that last part too, and Fíli laughs at him, but kindly. He steps closer. "Don't you think if we are fated to be sundered it might not be the best idea to spend what may be our last days as if it were already so?"

Kíli is conflicted, his whole scheme faulty but he is stubborn in the face of what he wants the most, some mismanaged sense of rightness clouding his judgement. "I'm afraid, brother. I don't think I could go on without you at my side."

"That much, I think, is clear," Fíli says, brushing the backs of his fingers across the roughness of Kíli's cheek, mopping up further tears. "How do you think I might feel about losing you? I feel as if it's already happening, you know."

"I'm sorry," Kíli says as he mashes his face into the space between Fíli's neck and shoulder. He is solid and present and _here_ and Kíli holds onto him, abandoning idiocy. "I thought it was a good idea at the time."

"Did you?"

"Not really."

Fíli laughs again, a deep rumble in his chest that Kíli feels rather than hears. Fíli's arms are about him in a tight embrace, there is a hand in Kíli's hair, fingers tangling. Rocking him gently, Fíli noses aside a stray lock; his whiskers tickle Kíli's ear. "Do you really think the gods would be so cruel as to part us?"

Kíli looks up from his shoulder; at this angle his brother's face is no more than the glint of the early dawn upon the clasp of his moustache-braid, swaying before his eyes. He's had to stoop slightly to be embraced, as always. The melancholy refuses to disperse completely, but Kíli finds he's readily prepared–now, so suddenly, but he knew it was stupid–to be as close to Fíli as he might for the rest of this quest. Side by side, back to back, never apart. The hand that was in Kíli's hair falls to his lower back, pushing up beneath his greatcoat and undershirt, a hot palm against his flesh.

"I don't think the gods _could_ separate us, were they so inclined."

 

Full dawn finally discovers them sitting with backs against the rock; Kíli is slumped against his brother, head on Fíli's shoulder, asleep within the harbour of Fíli's arm. Fíli looks out, eyes half-lidded, the ebb of slumber playing about his features. The wind winds their hair together, tow-coloured tendrils and ebon-brown knots, braids unravelled. Thorin finds them there presently also and regards his nephews with something that's not quite exasperation.

"Well, I'm sure we're all glad you two have mended your quarrel; now, up. There's a long road ahead of us yet." He waits as Fíli dislodges his brother, shaking him lightly, and waits still for Kíli to stop yawning and rubbing his eyes long enough to realise he's the only one still sitting. 

"Morning uncle," he pipes, and gets a tired glower. Fíli throws him a grin over Thorin's shoulder as he passes behind him; Kíli lumbers to his feet, rolling his shoulders back, striding after Fíli in the direction of the camp. The rest of the group are stirring; Bombur is all for chancing a breakfast-fire but one look from Thorin as he rejoins them puts him off. Fíli is shaking out the blankets, doubling them over in his arms and bundling them almost neatly back into their packs. The day looks set to be clear and dry, a good omen for their onward journey. Kíli shoulders his bow and quiver, and walks side by side with Fíli as they head off into the wild.


End file.
